"dermatitis" poems
Domestic violence is far more glamorous than contact dermatitis.
Feel disgusting. Fall face down in bleach, it’s the only way to go.
You only write a mere two lines then leave.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
*Manchester in 1950
The war was getting forgotten now
except in the movies John Wayne
saved the world alone.
And he always won every battle.
I was a boy conceived in the mayhem
of civilian bombings by the Luftwaffe.
TV was yet six years into the future.
Ration books limited the food of the poor.
The rich had the black market.
I did not know any rich people.
We were ten children and mom and dad.
Very few toys happened back then
So we played soccer with a misshaped ball.
Tennis with jumble sale racquets
and a bald ball borrowed from the dog.
Mom worked in factory that made
Rubber parts for things.
Her arms were always skinned from dermatitis
rashes due to the chemicals she used.
I had a key on a string hanging around my neck.
To get into the house after school.
I did not know back then how poor we were.
But reflecting back I understand now.
In the great depression Manchester
was hit hard.
My dad was put on one week of work
On week unpaid.
My mom cleaned houses to make money
For a meal for her ten kids.
Her pregnant belly
almost touching the floor.
As she cleaned on her knees.
Just days before giving birth.
I think those days were the hardest.
Even the choking smog caused by the use of
Soft coal on fires in homes and the relentless
smoke of the industrial north west of England.
Left a trail of victims after each foggy attack.
It was then in a dark foreboding world of post
war England.
I swore to all that was holy
I would get out of there and make something
of myself no more poverty.
Education was escape tunnel from that prison.
That and a burning hatred for want and ignorance.
I became the only one of my family
To obtain a degree from university.
I took my skills and verve
to America and Canada
Opened my own business
And lived the dream.
My children now grown
Have never seen need or want.
It was a miracle to me.
Except sometimes
Even now after all these long years.
I dream of Manchester after the war
And breathing is difficult
As the acrid smoke of the blackened
Chimneys chokes me even in sleep.
And I see mom in the dream
she is so beautiful
to me and I can’t help her
because it was too late.*
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC